


Stoned in Paradise

by mickthekid



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitute Mickey, References to Drugs, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickthekid/pseuds/mickthekid
Summary: “What are you gonna do?”“Nothing. Oh my fuckin’ god, I don’t wanna do shit.” Mickey dragged in another shaky breath as he saw the same image flash before his eyes. “I don’t fuckin’ know, I don’t fuckin’ know.”Ian gnawed the nail of his thumb, heart racing, mind hazy from too many thoughts, too little room. “We'll figure it out."---His mouth was as harsh as his body language, movements calculated and senses sharp as a result of years of daily practice. The life he was leading was his normal, the only normal he could distinctly remember. His normal was climbing into strangers' cars, it was sleeping in cheap motels, it was walking with his hand on his belt like a cop approaching a criminal.The routine Mickey has built for himself gets put to the test when one Ian Gallagher enters his life, much like a fist in a dark alleyway, with his curious looks and the strong will to never back down without putting up a fight. Ian is a breath of fresh air Mickey has a hard time inhaling - determined, proud, and ready to go.





	1. one second

**Author's Note:**

> Starting an actual multi-chapter story. Can't set an update schedule since I'm a student with a month of school left before summer break. But we'll see how it goes. I'm good at procrastinating when it comes to any school related shit.
> 
> I hope you like it.
> 
> Title from Milky Chance's "Stolen Dance".

Mickey was on his eighth cigarette of the night, the night that was only two hours old. His tattooed fingers were quickly going numb from the cold, the smoke in his lungs hardly a distraction. Just a way to pass time at this point. He watched from under his streetlamp as a car stopped a few feet to his left. The door opened and out stepped Billie, looking even smaller than usual in his over-sized winter coat. He had a couple of bills clutched in his hand, which he was quick to shove into the inside breast pocket of his coat. Sixty percent of that would go to Brando, the rest he would use to buy condoms, if he’s smart. But most likely coke, because Billie was sure the condoms wouldn’t do shit for him anymore. Rich guys paid more, and if Billie let the old man call him his bitch, he’d probably be good for the next week.

“Yeah,” Billie said before he slammed the car door shut and stepped away from the red Honda. Mickey managed to see the ugly smirk on the driver’s face before he drove off, dick probably still wet and brain hazy from the orgasm Billie’s eighteen-year-old mouth had given him. Mickey had blown that guy once; he smelled like he never showered despite undoubtedly being the head of a rich North Side family, with a house, wife, four kids and a fucking picket fence with a goddamn poodle eating its food from a golden bowl and shitting in its own golden toilet.

Billie nodded in Mickey’s direction, swiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, then proceeded to walk down the street, sneakers occasionally sliding on the slippery sidewalk.

Despite being only twenty-three, Mickey felt old in the streets. Most of the other guys he’d met had been under twenty, some not even legal yet. He had no responsibility over anyone, but he knew a lot of Brando’s boys had got attacked. Brando was quiet about most of it, but he would occasionally mention one Ricky or a Jackie who’d got their ass handed to them, either by a gay-basher or a john who just wanted some free ass. Afterward Brando would kiss Mickey’s neck and tell him he wouldn’t ever let anything like that happen to Mickey. Like he could prevent that from happening, when the only time he was with Mickey, not counting payment, was when Mickey was underneath him, pressed into the creaky old bed in Brando’s shitty apartment. Mickey always smiled and said: “All right, B,” before leaning his head to the side for better access.

Another car pulled up, this time almost directly in front of Mickey. The passenger side window opened, and Mickey heard more than saw the grin on the driver’s face when he said, in the voice of someone who’d been smoking since they were twelve: “Wanna ride?” Mickey dropped the cigarette on the curb and stepped on it before he made his way to the black Corolla.

“Whatcha in the mood for, baby?” The term of endearment came to him naturally after years of practice in seducing potential clients. It wasn’t necessary in a lot of cases, since most of these men just wanted a pretty mouth and an orgasm, anyway, and Mickey could give them both, there was no doubt about that. But he wasn’t willing to risk it. He found it to be fairly easy money, after all.

The driver jerked his head, an indication to hop into the car. So Mickey did. The car smelled new, like the owner had just got a big-ass promotion and the first thing he did was go buy himself a nice, new ride. This was probably the first time he got his dick stroked in the new vehicle. Mickey assumed it to be an instant turn-on for the old fart.

“Whatever you can give me, sugar,” the guy replied after a shameless once-over, an appreciative hum coming from his throat. He was already tenting in his dress-pants, straight from work, thoughts of his wife who wouldn’t let his wrinkly old cock anywhere near her anymore in the back of his head. Mickey liked to think these kinds of things, they were something to add to the face, or rather the cock he was going to have to entertain for the next however many minutes.

“All right,” Mickey said. “Fifty bucks’ll get you a hand job, eighty for head and you can fuck me for one hundred. Anythin’ extra’s gonna raise the price.”

The guy didn’t have to consider for too long before he told Mickey to suck him off. When Mickey got the guy’s belt and zipper open, the back of his head was grabbed and he was shoved down on the guy’s dick. Mickey slapped his thigh in warning. “Hair pulling’s extra.”

“I'mma pay you double,” the guy said in a sigh as Mickey rolled on a condom and finally got to work. Mickey sometimes fucking loved rich grandpas.

 

Mickey, even after meeting up with Brando, got to end his night with a little over a hundred dollars in his pocket. That would be enough to pay for the next few nights at the nearby motel, also for some food. He was running out of condoms, too.

During his walk to the gas station he visited regularly, Mickey smoked his tenth cigarette. He’d have to buy a new pack of smokes. Shit, he’d need to cut down the number of cigarettes he smoked in a day. Six guys a night still wasn’t enough to pay for everything he needed. Or, well, it would be if Brando wasn’t such a greedy asshole.

The gas station, located conveniently only a half a mile from his motel, included a small convenience store. Mickey liked it because there were never more than two or three people around at the same time. A possible threat was easier to detect that way. It would take a second, maybe two, for Mickey to get his gun out and shoot whoever was planning on jumping him. Of course, it’s only a “what-if”, but Mickey liked to be prepared.

Upon arrival, Mickey immediately noticed that the cashier wasn’t Edith. How could he not, when instead of a petite, gray-haired old lady, behind the cash register stood a tall, lanky, red-headed kid. Mickey narrowed his eyes at him before he went about his business of picking up the items he needed. A carton of eggs, bread, a pack of mints, and a water bottle in his hands, Mickey made his way to the counter.

“Hey,” the kid greeted, his smile wide and happy – whether it was real or just for customer service, Mickey didn’t know. Edith probably threatened to fire him if she caught him straight-faced. That sounded like something she would do.

“Where’s Edith?” Mickey asked in response, eyes wandering around the store once before settling back on the new kid.

Red raised an eyebrow. “In the back, going over some inventory shit or something. Want me to get her?” he asked, to which Mickey shook his head.

“Nah, just a question.”

“I’m Ian.”

“Good for you. I need a pack of smokes and condoms, too. Twenty bucks enough?” Mickey shoved his hand into his pocket and fished out a couple of bills, setting a twenty on the counter.

Ian looked at the monitor and then back at Mickey, bottom lip between his teeth. “Yeah, ‘course.” He put the items in a brown paper bag for Mickey before wishing him a good night. The smile had found its way back onto his face. Mickey thought it was the most irritating thing he had seen all day. He had seen a lot of shit.

“Great. See ya.” Ian raised his hand in a goodbye as Mickey hightailed his ass out of there with the following day’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner in one hand while the other one found its way to his gun, an automatic action.

Only two seconds, one if he’s waiting for it.


	2. maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Mickey wished Tibby would just leave. Maybe her parents would convince her to move to New York, maybe she’d fall in love with one of the North Side pricks Mickey sucked off for a living. Maybe she’d get hit by a drunk driver.

Mickey had a distinct daily schedule that he followed to a T to the best of his ability. He’d wake up at around ten in the morning, eat and do whatever he needed to get done before six, though it usually wasn’t much. Sometimes he’d look at advertisements for apartments even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford one, not yet. He would shower sometime in the afternoon, and when five thirty rolled around, he’d leave his room and walk to his usual spot. After work, usually around two or three in the morning, he’d meet up with Brando to give him his share of the night’s earnings. Afterward he would either go to Edith’s to get some food and condoms, or he’d head straight to his motel. Seven hours later the whole cycle would repeat. It was like clockwork.

Often times he would leave his room earlier if Brando had told him to come over the previous day. That happened a lot, so Mickey would shower at his motel and, if he had time, again at Brando’s. It was an easy schedule, one Mickey had got accustomed to over the years. It felt safe, he knew where to be, who he’d see, who he’d avoid seeing. He liked to think his life was similar to the movie _Groundhog Day_ , but unlike Bill Murray, Mickey actually enjoyed it.

 

It was already dark outside, the only light in the apartment coming from a lamp on the kitchen table and the occasional car driving by the building. The Clash’s album _London Calling_ was playing in the background, a gift Brando had received from his girlfriend a couple of years back. The record player wasn’t in the best of conditions, the songs occasionally skipped and cut off, but that didn’t really matter. Brando liked to listen to music while he fucked. Mickey didn’t think it added to the atmosphere, since there really wasn’t one to begin with, but it was Brando’s place. His sex. His rules.

Mickey secured his belt, ignoring how it seemed to need more fastening than it did a few weeks ago. It had just loosened from years of wear, it’s not like he could buy new, trendy clothes the same way he bought condoms. His black t-shirt followed, then his hoodie as he walked around the small apartment, stepping over piles of clothes, plates, and random shit Brando had once thought was cool but ended up throwing on the floor as a nuisance. Brando’s gaze was boring into his back. He had wished Brando would pass out immediately after, but fuck him for never being one of those guys.

With a new cigarette hanging from his mouth, Brando grumbled: “You like The Clash?”

“Sure,” Mickey said. He knew each song on the record, Brando never got tired of playing it when Mickey was visiting. Maybe he knew it gave him a headache and only played music when Mickey was there to suffer from it. That sounded like something Brando would do.

“What’d ya like about ‘em?”

Mickey shrugged, dug his own pack of smokes out of his pocket, lit one. He took a couple of drags before answering. “Dunno, they’re good players.” Mickey sat on the edge of Brando’s bed, deliberately looking out the window, anywhere but at Brando’s eyes, drooping, partly from the sex but mostly from the weed he had been smoking.

Brando hummed. “Yeah. They started when I was born, you know that?” When Mickey said nothing, he laughed. “Makes me feel damn old, fucking hell. But then again,” Brando landed a light kick to the small of Mickey’s back, “you make me feel a lil’ younger, so it’s all good.”

“Uh-huh.” Mickey knew how to keep his face neutral, especially when he was with Brando. He liked Brando fine, sometimes he was just confused. He knew a lot of pimps raped their whores, beat them up when they felt like it. Abuse was rampant in this line of work. Mickey was glad he had met Brando all those years ago, not any other motherfucker making money off whores they would slap around whenever they weren’t working. Brando wasn’t like those assholes. He was an exceptional man.

Brando coughed, spit into a cup he had on the table beside his bed. “It’s almost six, baby.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Mickey. He reached over to put the last of his cigarette out. “You gonna be here later?”

Brando nodded. He blew out three smoke rings which Mickey watched dissolve into the stuffy air of the room. “Gonna have company though, you can’t stay.”

“I still got my motel room,” Mickey reminded him. “But, uh,” he rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, “they said they gotta kick me out in a day or two, but I’mma see what I can do, yeah?”

“Maybe tomorrow, Mickey. Can’t stay long though, Tibby’s coming on Thursday.”

“S’cool,” Mickey confirmed. Two days would be enough to collect plenty to get a room for a few days. “Thanks, B.”

Brando was a smart guy. Not book-wise, but that was okay, neither was Mickey. They both were good at the whole street life game, and they had a clear, mutual understanding of what worked best for the both of them. Mickey liked that about their relationship. He didn’t know anyone else who worked like that with Brando. Not even Tibby. Tibby had gone to college. Dropped out during sophomore year, but she had got in. She had a legal job at a hair salon now. Tibby was the angel in Brando’s eyes, but Mickey was the one Brando would come to, because Mickey understood him. Fucking Tibby had rich parents who paid for a lot of the shit she bought, her car, apartment, all that shit. The albums Brando played while he fucked Mickey on the same bed Tibby had slept in.

It seemed to work so well that sometimes Mickey wished Tibby would just leave. Maybe her parents would convince her to move to New York, maybe she’d fall in love with one of the North Side pricks Mickey sucked off for a living. Maybe she’d get hit by a drunk driver.

Maybe.

“Time to go,” Mickey finally said. He got his sneakers and jacket on, pressed a kiss to the corner of Brando’s mouth, a promise for the future, and he was on his way into the night.

 

The temperature had dropped during the day. The windows of the cars parked near the pavement were covered in a thin layer of frost, and breathing alone made people look like they were happily puffing on a cigarette or two. Mickey had always liked winter, but when he found his place here, that love quickly vanished. The winter also meant that the sun would set sooner. Darkness meant more danger, the likelihood that he’d get captured and murdered grew in the winter. It was shit, but bearable. He was always prepared.

“Yo, Mickey!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey sighed before he turned around to the direction the voice had come from. A tall, blond guy was walking toward him, hair slicked back and sunglasses on his nose like a classic grade A asshole. The guy walked with his chin up, oozing confidence, charisma and chill like no one else Mickey knew did.

His long legs moved quickly, in the space of five seconds he had reached Mickey, immediately clapping him on the back like they were the best of friends from high school.

“Aaron,” Mickey greeted, automatically taking a step back. Aaron didn’t seem to notice, he never noticed, just grinned and squeezed Mickey’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, same old, same old. You know how it is.” Mickey knew. Aaron always had trouble to solve, be it something to do with his streetwalkers or some drug-related bullshit he had to figure out. Every time Aaron managed to work everything out, he got a new plateful of shit in front of him. Mickey figured he liked getting his hands dirty.

Aaron’s hands were in his jacket pockets now, posture straight and solid, inviting. Mickey couldn’t believe that just a few years back he had had a hard time not popping a boner just from watching that smug face and sunglasses-covered eyes eating him up, relishing in the fact that some guy looked at him like he was a prize worth winning. Of course, all that had changed during the years, something Mickey was happy about. He couldn’t afford to have attachments like that now, he had come to realize that quickly. Brando, Mickey thought, was an exception to the rule, like he was to most of Mickey’s rules.

“So,” Aaron started, “you have any free time later today?”

Sniffing, Mickey raised his eyebrows. “I’m here ‘til two, man. And I ain’t touchin’ your fucking coke or whatever the fuck you’re dealing now. Ten years in the can’s gonna fuck up my face.”

“No, no drugs, dude. Brando’d kick my fucking ass, Jesus,” Aaron laughed. “No. Eli and Ryan wanna film a porno, and--“

Mickey emitted a surprised laugh. “Fuckin’ spare your breath, Ronnie, I ain’t filming any goddamn pornos. What the fuck?”

“They’d pay you.”

“Yeah? A junkie who barely has money to keep himself alive and a good-for-nothing bitchboy whose only possession is his shitty-ass camera, they’re gonna pay me. They’ll pay me triple the amount I’ll make in three days to film a porno that’s probably gonna leak and I’ll get cops on my ass. Like that’s gonna fuckin’ happen.” Mickey fished out a cigarette, lit it behind the palm of his hand, took a drag. “As fucking if.” He shook his head, a small sneer on his lips.

Aaron sighed. “Your call, man. But I could promise you they’re good for it.”

Shaking his head, Mickey puffed out smoke. “Can’t risk it.” He nodded when Billie passed them, bundled up in his coat and skinny jeans that probably did fuck all to keep the kid warm. Billie’s gaze landed on Aaron, stayed there for a second, then dropped to the ground as he hurried on. “Maybe you should do it,” Mickey said when Billie’s small form disappeared behind the next corner.

“They wouldn’t want me, man. They need someone small, like you,” Aaron said. “Power play and shit.”

“You could ask Billie.” 

“Already done. Didn’t believe he’d get paid.”

Mickey snorted. “Smart kid. What do you care, anyway?”

“They’re gonna sell that shit to some rich dude, and I’ll get half of the money.” Aaron sounded defeated, which puzzled Mickey. The streets were like ant nests: they were full of small, cute working girls and guys alike. Aaron should have no problem getting some twink to play a shitty role in a BDSM short film. Mickey voiced that thought, to which Aaron responded with another high-pitched laugh.

“Looks like nobody wants to do it ‘cause it’s somehow so fuckin’ different from what they usually do. You hookers, man. So suspicious about literally everything.”

“You know why we’re like that, huh? There’s a lot of fucking assholes out there, most of us know from first-hand fuckin’ experience. If I ditch this place now and go do something and then not get paid, what’s gonna happen? I won’t have fucking money to afford another night at that shitty motel, I won’t have enough for food or for basic fucking shit like condoms and lube.” Mickey cleared his throat and spit. “Jesus, Ronnie, you’re a fucking _pimp_. Common knowledge. Use that shit.”

Before Aaron could form an Aaron-esque, smart-ass response, a fleeting, weak honk sounded from behind Mickey. He sighed, dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and said: “Work calls.”

Aaron watched Mickey climb into a black minivan, only turning to walk back to where he came from once the car backed up and took off into the night. His boots slid on the ice as he strode along the pavement, streetlights casting his shadow on the wall of a low apartment building, making him look even taller than he already was.


	3. young soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid had on a t-shirt with a picture of a man holding a shotgun on the front, the words “YOUNG SOLDIER” surrounding it. The kid was leaning back with his hands behind his head, a fair eyebrow raised. Mickey thought he looked way too comfortable for the environment, sticking out with his fire-red hair and relaxed posture like a sore thumb.

“…and I just feel like… I don’t know… like she just doesn’t care anymore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s always in town with her friends, shopping, all that… like, now that Jake’s moved out, she doesn’t think she needs to be around anymore. She - _fuck_ , _yeah_ \- she used to leave notes or call, but not anymore. Acts like I’m not even there, hell, _I_ feel like I’m not there. She’s always too tired to fuck, and I think – Jesus _Christ_ , don’t stop – she’s having an affair with a younger guy, so…”

Mickey’s eyebrows were drawn together, sweat stinging in his eyes. His thighs were complaining from too much straining as he bounced in the lap of his final client of the night, up and down, determined to finish his task. The guy was good-looking, in his late forties, fit and blond. Someone Mickey didn’t mind fucking for a little longer than he did with his usual grandpas who only took a few minutes to blow their load. Longer fucks meant more money, which wasn’t something Mickey could deny even if he wanted to.

But the Draco Malfoy looking prick kept getting distracted by his own talking. Mickey couldn’t look at the clock, but the way several parts of his body were aching indicated that they had been going at it for way too long. Mickey had been hard, but that boner had been killed by too much wife-talk.

“I’ve never actually – _oh_ – done this, you know that? Pretty weird, feels different from Eve… is it because of the ass thing? I didn’t think asses and pussies felt different, though I’ve never fucked her fro—“

“Holy shit!” Mickey cursed, finally stopping his bouncing. “Let’s switch,” he announced, giving Joe – that was the guy’s name, Mickey recalled – no room to argue before he dropped onto the bed, pulled Joe clumsily over himself and let him push back in, annoyed and ready to get the fuck out for the night. “Don’t think about your wife right now, yeah? If she doesn’t want this dick, her fucking loss.”

Joe groaned into the pillow underneath Mickey’s head. “Okay, yeah. You’re better than her, anyway, she said I talked too much during sex. I just think silence is awkward. Like, yes, I got my dick in you, doesn’t mean we can’t have a natural conversation, like normal people. She’s always complaining about that. Not anymore, though, we haven’t been like th--” Mickey shut Joe up by pulling his face into his neck under the guise of wanting to be kissed.

 

After taking a quick shower in Joe’s hotel room, Mickey sneaked out when the babbling bastard was fast asleep, a hundred and fifty bucks in his pocket and an ache in his legs. Mickey always felt shitty having to leave a hotel, he seldom got to enjoy the breakfast or the big, soft beds apart from the few minutes he spent on his back underneath a man whose wallet alone held more money than he made in a month. But it wasn’t like he could sleep with a client. Mickey found it too dangerous; anyone could be the bad guy, a warm bed wasn’t worth risking getting beaten to death.

One hand in his pocket, another gripping the hem of his jacket, right next to his gun, Mickey started his walk back to his street. When he lit a cigarette, his sixth of the night, it was more out of habit than anything else. Mickey reckoned dumping a cigarette into someone’s eyeball would give him a few extra seconds, if it came down to that. Smoking kills? Sure, but it can save an unfortunate hooker’s life.

On the way down a sidewalk, Mickey saw Allan. He was a blond kid, a couple of years Mickey’s junior, though he looked younger than that. His eyes were sea blue, wide, innocent, like he’d graduate from high school in a couple of years as the valedictorian and would be on his merry way to med school, swimming in his parents’ money, attending church weekly, and staying a virgin until marriage.

Brando liked to call him Baby; he had been around for years.

Allan was leaning against the side of an old building, clad in skinny jeans, a shirt and a thin hoodie. His eyes were scanning the street left and right, waiting for his next guy. The street lamp cast enough light on the kid’s face for Mickey to notice the dark circles around his eyes, though one of them looked a lot worse than what plain sleep deprivation caused: it was dark purple, something the freaks in hipster glasses and sweaters would call artistic, but it was an ugly contrast to Allan’s blond head of hair. Mickey knew Allan had a boyfriend, a real brick wall, who wasn’t fond of the career path his precious little fruit had chosen to take. Not like the guy could do much else than throw a few punches to remind Allan that no, fucking borderline pedos wasn't on his list of “things my dream boyfriend must do extremely well”.

Mickey could recall a lot of the times Brando had shouted at Allan for having bruising on some part of his body, typically his face. Brando believed Allan didn’t attract as many guys as he normally could with his young face and lean body, though Mickey had a feeling there were guys who jerked off to pictures of beat-up jailbait-looking boys. Maybe Brando was just oblivious to shit like that.

 

Mickey ascended the stairs to Brando’s apartment two at a time, breath catching a few times on the way up. That’s all right, the cold always fucked with Mickey’s lungs. It was probably inherited from his mom, she used to have the same problem. Mickey barely minded.

Knocking on the green door, Mickey stopped to catch his breath, eyes closed, face up. He listened as someone took the elevator down. It made threatening noises on its way, but it had been like that when Mickey had first set foot in the building. That was many years ago.

When Brando’s door opened, Mickey was greeted by Tibby’s unimpressed face. She was wearing nothing but her underwear, hair a mess, cigarette between her lips. Her mascara was smeared around her eyes, red lipstick on her chin more than her lips, speaking of a good round of sex. Mickey’s heart picked up, though he was careful to keep his face indifferent.

“Hey,” Tibby said. Her smile was as fake as her blond hair, her voice sickly smooth.

“Brando here?” Mickey stepped forward, but Tibby didn’t move. She was a small woman, shorter than Mickey, he could easily shoulder past her. But that would just lead to Brando getting mad at Mickey, something Mickey wanted less than anything else.

“He’s in the shower. You can run whatever it is by me.” Tibby crossed her arms over her chest, chin up, somehow succeeding in staring Mickey down despite her short figure.

“No, I gotta talk to him. I can’t go around givin’ shit to you just ‘cause you’re his girlfriend or whatever, Beatrice.” Mickey enjoyed the way Tibby’s eyebrows drew together into a deep frown, the way her mouth pursed. She hated being referred to by her real name, that was something only her true love Brando had the permission to do. She thought it was hot, Brando had told Mickey.

“Whatever.” Tibby turned her head to the side with a sigh. “Donnie! Mickey’s here!” she shouted. Mickey leaned against the doorframe, eyes on the bathroom door over Tibby’s shoulder. Tibby’s dark eyes were boring into his face, but Mickey had learned to ignore it over the years she had been around. She wasn’t threatening, not when Mickey had first met her, not afterward. She was just someone Brando fucked.

“You need to go after, you know,” Tibby said, exhaling smoke through her mouth as she spoke.

“Like I would wanna stay in this fuckin’ sex dungeon,” Mickey huffed right when the bathroom door opened and out stepped Brando, a plain white towel around his waist, hair a damp mess, skin flushed. Mickey leaned his head to the side in silent appreciation.

Brando placed his hand on Tibby’s shoulder, kissing her pale cheek as he did so. “You go back to bed, baby. This’ll only take a minute.” Tibby cast one last tight-lipped look at Mickey before she turned around, disappearing behind the corner. Brando looked after her, his gaze fond as he bit down on his lip. Mickey clenched his fists.

“I got $370 total, fifty bucks extra from the last guy.” Mickey handed Brando his stack of bills, watching as he shuffled through them, counting like he always did.

He took his old, shitty calculator and punched in some numbers, counting his percentage. He divided the bills as he listened to Mickey’s recap for the night. “Anyone give you a hard time?”

Mickey shook his head. He took the bills Brando handed to him, put them in his pocket and nodded quickly. He lowered his voice when he spoke: “How long’s she gonna be around?” He couldn’t see Tibby from the door, but he knew she was lying in bed, probably already naked and waiting for round number three, maybe four, depending on how quickly Brando had been able to get it up after Mickey had left.

Brando leaned back to take a look before he stepped out into the hallway. “A few days, she’s on a break from work. But you’ll come when she leaves, yeah, Mickey?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed, eyes hooded as Brando planted a firm kiss on his lips. “Just let me know, when.” Brando’s hands found his waist, lips trailing down to his neck, sucking gently, drawing a sigh out of Mickey. “Can’t leave marks, man,” he mumbled, but Brando just laughed and nibbled at his skin. Mickey brought his hands up to rest on Brando’s shoulders, neck bent, mouth open in a gasp.

“I love you so much, Mickey,” Brando sighed into his ear. His hands squeezed Mickey’s hips quickly before he pulled away, a grin on his face. “See ya tomorrow.”

“You too, B,” Mickey said to the closing door. The click of the lock echoed in the cold hallway.

 

The little bell dinged when Mickey pushed open the door of Edith’s little store. It was a rusty thing, barely making enough noise for Edith’s ears to pick up, but she never replaced it. It probably had some sort of sentimental value, like everything in the store seemed to have.

“Hey!” chimed a happy voice behind Mickey as he was going through his usual motions of picking up his breakfast for the next few days. “Welcome back.”

Mickey turned around, eyebrows raised. Behind the cash register sat, instead of Edith, the ginger kid from a week or so ago. What his name was, Mickey couldn’t recall. The kid had on a t-shirt with a picture of a man holding a shotgun on the front, the words “YOUNG SOLDIER” surrounding it. The kid was leaning back with his hands behind his head, a fair eyebrow raised. Mickey thought he looked way too comfortable for the environment, sticking out with his fire-red hair and relaxed posture like a sore thumb.

“A pack of Marlboros, too,” Mickey said once he’d placed his groceries on the counter.

Red had a small smirk on his lips as he scanned the items. “No condoms this time?”

Mickey squinted his eyes. “The fuck?”

“Don’t you need those?”

“How’s that your fuckin’ business, shithead?”

Red leaned back in his chair, punched the numbers into his machine, the smirk lingering. “It’s not. The concept of ‘too many condoms’ just doesn’t exist.” He reached over and grabbed a packet off the shelf behind him. “Here you go. Stay safe and shit.”

“The fuck are you, a school nurse? I’m the wrong fucking guy to educate on safe fucking, Red,” Mickey said, though he took the pack of condoms when handed to him. “A bit late to the party.”

“It’s Ian. Don’t call me Red, I hate that.”

“Cool, Firecrotch.” Ian pursed his lips in disapproval, but his eyes were bright. He had a weird child-like gaze even though he looked Mickey’s age. He had a strong jawline and green eyes, and Mickey could see the faded freckles on Ian’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He oozed confidence, much like Aaron did, but he carried it differently. His smirk was cocky but not off-putting. Maybe it was the lack of sunglasses, Mickey wasn’t sure.

“Edith said something,” Ian spoke up again as Mickey was loading the food into a plastic bag. Mickey pulled a face and leaned his head to the side.

“Yeah? She’s old, of course she’s got a big-ass mouth.”

“Yeah, well,” Ian laughed, shaking his head, “she also said you were the most exhausting of all of ‘em.”

Mickey snorted. “She’s a fucking bitch. Not like I’m gonna be all secretive about that shit, anyway.”

Ian worried his lip between his teeth as he watched Mickey load the last of his purchases into his bag. “I don’t judge, you know. Doesn’t really make a difference to me.”

Sniffing, Mickey widened his stance. “Whatever, Red. What do you want me to say, huh?”

“Just making small talk.”

“All right.”

“All right.” Ian chuckled again. “All right,” he repeated quietly as he looked away from Mickey’s face. “I was serious, though,” he said after a beat of silence. Mickey snorted, sliding his thumb over his lower lip.

“Don’t need no advice from you, man, the fuck you take me for? Good for you for not ratting all of us out to the cops? Think it’d end good on your part?”

“Touché,” Ian admitted. His eyes flickered back to Mickey as he shifted in his chair again. It was the same chair Edith’s husband had sat on when the store was robbed five years prior. Poor guy had got a bullet into the center of his face. Mickey reckoned that was an odd thing to be thinking about. “You need anything else?” asked Ian. His smirk had diminished into a gentle smile somewhere between their lines, but he was leaning forward in his chair now, forearms resting on the counter, wide eyes set on Mickey. Never knowing how to act when someone was staring at him like that, Mickey took a step back.

“You talk too much, you know that? You gotta cut that shit or Edith’s gonna fire your ass.”

“That a threat?”

“Nah, Edith’s gonna threaten you plenty. Just advice. ‘S a miracle you’re still sittin’ here, if you talk to every asshole that comes in here like you’ve got time to waste.”

Ian raised his chin up, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. “Most just pay and leave, you know.”

“Didn’t fuckin’ give me time to do that with the interrogation on safe sex, did you? Fuckin’ weirdo.” Mickey moved his bag from one hand to the other. “Edith won’t fucking hesitate to kick you to the curb. Hope she will.”

“Too kind. Your advice is duly noted.” Ian gave Mickey a salute, to which Mickey responded with a middle finger. “Have a good night, Mickey.”

“She give you my name, too? Jesus, she should fire her fucking self,” Mickey huffed, already on his way to the door, Ian’s laughter as his exit track.

The rusty bell chimed again like a poor man’s mic drop as he exited the store. If his stance was a little more relaxed than when he had arrived, he had his everlasting fatigue to blame.


	4. lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I had to close up shop early today, so you’re lucky I was there when I was." Ian had made it his duty to keep a hand near Mickey’s bicep in case Mickey’s brain decided to say fuck it and give up.
> 
> “Yeah. I feel so fuckin’ lucky right now, you got no idea. Coulda handled this on my fuckin’ own.”

It was twenty minutes past one in the morning when a weak honk pierced through Mickey’s ears. The car, a small, red box with wheels, was parked at an awkward angle, would probably get a ticket if the driver didn’t fuck off soon. The trunk was ajar, a long plank of wood sticking out like an odd tail. If the driver were to back up, the board would have scraped an ugly gash into the white Corolla behind it. Whoever the owner was, Mickey thought, they wouldn’t be able to pay for the damage.

Before Mickey reached the car, the driver’s side door opened and out stepped a lanky guy. Dressed like a stereotypical pothead with his baggy jeans and a shirt that was three sizes too big with a fucking marijuana leaf on the front, the guy rounded the car, casting a brief glance Mickey’s way before he continued on.

“Alley,” Jeans said, holding up a hand in the right direction. Mickey hesitated for only a second before he kicked some snow on the curb and followed the leader.

The guy had got his zipper down and cock out immediately after disappearing behind the corner into the alley, giving Mickey no time to utter a syllable and lay down his usual prices and terms. Mickey took a step back with a raised hand in front of his face, eyebrows up. “Hold on, man. I gotta know what you want. Set up the price and shit.”

Jeans huffed like Mickey was a walking inconvenience. He pointed to his crotch with a finger, one eyebrow raised. “Suck it? What the fucking else you think I’m here for, dude?”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said. “That’s gonna be twenty bucks outta your wallet.” The winter felt even colder when his knees hit the hard ground.

“Yo! I ain’t got no fuckin’ twenty bucks, the fuck do I look like to you?” Jeans exclaimed, but it got mixed with a low moan as Mickey wrapped a hand around him.

“The fuck do _I_ look like to _you_ , you fuckin’ hippie? You ain’t gettin’ your dick wet if you ain’t fuckin’ good for it.” Mickey squeezed the base of Jeans’s cock, aware that he would need to walk away soon – unless Jeans was lucky and hadn’t shot all his money into his vein earlier during the night.

Jeans’s hips thrust forward on their own accord. “Man, what kinda whore’re you? The girls down the street cost, like, half your ass.”

“Got a good mouth,” Mickey responded, a small smirk on his face as Jeans’s eyes widened at the exact same time that his dick twitched. “Been told I know more tricks than all the girls down the street combined. But, uh, ya can’t know ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Jeans’s face pulled into an ugly frown for a moment. His hips were still moving like a second thought at the back of his head as he stared down into Mickey’s eyes.

“Uh,” Jeans said. He moved his head around to check the alley, empty as ever except for a passed-out drunk a few feet away from the pair. He looked back down at Mickey’s impatient glare. “I got ten bucks.”

“I don’t negotiate,” Mickey said. He got off his knees and shrugged a shoulder. “Tough luck.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to a sexually frustrated junkie, for Jeans let out a rather loud curse before pulling his arm back and then forward, hitting Mickey square in the left side of his jaw. The punch was enough to knock Mickey off his feet, landing ungracefully onto the dirty ground, the back of his head thumping against the wall behind him.

Then Jeans decided to use whatever brain cells he had left to get the fuck out of there with his pants halfway down his thighs, running back into the night.

“What the _fuck_!” Mickey yelled after him, hands at his jaw, catching the blood dripping from his mouth. “Fuck you!” he shouted as the car pulled off the pavement, tires screeching like the asshole thought Mickey could start running after him. “Fuck!”

Mickey spit blood onto the ground, his breathing heavy as he leaned against the wall. A heavy pounding was making itself at home in his jaw and the back of his head. Had he believed in God, he would have sent a thousand _thank yous_ for not falling unconscious this time – luck hadn’t always been on his side when it came to that.

“Fucking… fuck.” Mickey kept mumbling curses and insults at nobody in particular as he slowly, with difficulty, climbed back to his feet. He groaned as the _thump thump thump_ only proceeded to increase, playing an erratic rhythm together with the beat of his heart. He made his way out onto the sidewalk. He spit again, stumbled for a second, leaned against a lone lamppost before taking off again.

_Brando wasn't gonna be happy about this._

Mickey was just about to slip through two parked cars on the curb when a familiar voice called out: “Hey, Mickey!”

He was tempted to pull the hood of his jacket up to cover his head and keep going, but the tone in which Ian had said his name was persistent enough to make him admit defeat before the battle could even begin. Mickey turned around, albeit reluctantly, to face the man he knew he would have a hard time shaking out of his hair.

“The fuck happened to your face?” Ian asked, stepping forward, undoubtedly to take a closer look at the busted lip and bruising jaw.

“None of your fuckin’ business, that’s what.” It was an automatic response, triggered by the combination of the drumming orchestra going on in his head and the knowledge that, shit, he should be meeting up with Brando soon.

“Okay,” Ian said, dragging the last syllable out. “Guess I’ll fuck off then.”

But Ian didn’t budge. His eyes traveled across the left side of Mickey’s face, assessing the damage. “He break your nose?”

Mickey’s sigh was exaggerated. “No, he fuckin’ didn’t.”

“Doesn’t look too good, anyway. I could get you some ice and shit,” Ian offered, going for a nonchalant tone as he turned ninety degrees to get a move-on. “Back at my place.”

Mickey stayed still, staring at Ian for a solid few seconds. “You serious? I got shit to take care of, can’t go jerkin’ any more cocks. I’m done for the night.”

The way Ian’s eyes widened would have made Mickey laugh if he weren’t in a ridiculous amount of pain. “No! No, fuck, that’s not what I meant! I don’t do that.” He dragged his hands down his face, let out a deep exhale. “Shit. No. I’d never—“

“Hey, all right, I don’t give a shit either way, Red. But I gotta be at a place in thirty minutes, can’t go around gettin’ into some creepers’ houses.” Mickey flinched as he brushed his hand against his cheek. “Fuck.”

“We probably have some kinda first aid kit at the store. At least somethin’ for your cheek,” Ian said. “You should come by. Or, I dunno, let someone else take care of that?”

Mickey was shaking his head before Ian had got to the end of his sentence. _Fuck, Brando would kill him_. “Let’s fuckin’ go, then.”

 

The cold air was even more brutal when it hit Mickey’s fresh wounds. He suspected at least two of his teeth had cracked, and his jaw was aching quite relentlessly as well. He could thank his luck that the guy probably hadn’t been to a gym once in his life, when a great chunk of the guys picking him up were typically quite big and burly. He could have been a fucking dead man.

The walk back to Edith’s store consisted of Ian’s persistent attempts at small talk and Mickey’s hisses as he tried to suppress the bleeding by pressing his thin scarf against his mouth. The taste of blood was nothing he hadn’t experienced before, he barely paid any attention to it, but the way one of his teeth was dangling from his gum, well, that made him get close to giving up and hurling onto the sidewalk.

“I had to close up shop early today, so you’re lucky I was there when I was,” Ian said as they approached the store. He had made it his duty to keep a hand near Mickey’s bicep in case Mickey’s brain decided to say _fuck it_ and give up. Mickey was only inwardly thankful for that – he did feel like his body was going to betray him any minute, despite all his pushing and soldiering forward.

“Yeah. I feel so fuckin’ lucky right now, you got no idea. Coulda handled this on my fuckin’ own.”

Ian had an impressive collection of different kinds of keys attached to a chain. The clatter made Mickey’s teeth ache in the otherwise quiet night as Ian unlocked the store door and led them inside.

The store, small as it was, held an eerie atmosphere when the lights were out. Mickey had watched his fair share of post-apocalyptic and horror movies to know this was exactly the type of store where the dead would bite. Maybe Mickey would die here, together with a half-stranger, as the first victims of a zombie apocalypse.

Was it possible to get high off a punch to the face?

Ian led him through the aisles and into the back room behind the counter. The room wasn’t familiar to Mickey from before, since Edith had never offered to play nurse and clean him up whenever he was on the receiving end of a hard fist.

The walls of the room were plain gray except for a poster of Elvis Presley on the wall opposite the door. There was a large table in the center of the room, an open notebook and an abandoned coffee cup on top of it. There was a red minifridge, an old TV and another door to what Mickey supposed was the bathroom. The only source of light was the rather dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. There weren’t even any windows.

“Well, this looks fuckin’ depressing,” Mickey commented as Ian set his backpack next to the table.

“Tell me about it,” Ian replied with a huff. “Come on.”

The bathroom was the size of the restrooms at motels. The part where the shower would be was filled by a counter and a sink, and there was a cabinet with glass doors on the wall. Mickey surged forward and spit into the sink, opening the faucet. He poured some room-temperature water into his mouth, gurgled, spit, winced when he saw one piece of bone drop into the sink. “Fuckin’ fantastic.”

Ian urged Mickey to hop onto the counter as he went to pick up a few more supplies. When he came back with a bag of frozen peas and some tissues and a towel, Mickey was perched up on the counter, rubbing his hand over a growing bump on the back of his head. “Good thing I ain’t fuckin’ bald,” he said.

“I think all we gotta do for your lip’s just clean it with cold water. This thing says to use mild soap, but I dunno if our soap is fuckin’ qualified for that.” Ian had his phone out, scrolling through it as he spoke. “It says the bleeding’s gotta stop first…” Ian looked up at Mickey’s face. “We’ll wait for a moment, then.”

Mickey took the towel from Ian, folded and pressed it against his mouth.

“This happen a lot?” Ian asked as he scanned Mickey’s face for any other noticeable damage.

Mickey shrugged. “Sometimes. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“What does your, uh…” Ian rummaged his brain for a word that was appropriate, but Mickey beat him to it with a snort.

“Brando just wants the money. But,” he reached for a new piece of tissue, wiped some more blood off the side of his mouth, “it’s a problem if I can’t fuckin’ work, right?”

Ian nodded. He took a piece of tissue, ran it under the running faucet, and started tapping it gently against Mickey’s lip. Mickey grabbed the bag of peas from the counter and pressed it against his red cheek. The cold made him flinch.

“It’s easier now. Pulling through all this shit, you know. These fuckin’ cheap druggies are just a minus.” Mickey didn’t bother mentioning that most of his ‘colleagues’ were cheap druggies as well. Ian might’ve known that, anyway. He wasn’t an idiot from what Mickey could gather. But then again, Mickey wasn’t exactly a great judge of character.

“You like it?”

Mickey grunted. “You interrogatin’ me again?” Ian applied more pressure onto the wound. “Jesus, fuck.” Mickey sucked on his teeth, pondering on how much he could say. It wasn’t that he liked to be secretive about his work, but it had always felt a tad bit more personal to him than his fucking summer job at some meat packing plant. “It gets me by,” Mickey eventually replied. Ian looked up into his eyes for a second.

“All right,” said Ian. His eyes dropped down to his task at hand again, but Mickey didn’t miss the second that Ian’s gaze lingered.

“All right.”

“Well,” Ian said, a tone of finality in his voice, “think I’m done here.” He hit the counter with an open palm as if he had just won a debate, and pulled away to throw the bloody tissue into the trash.

Once on his feet again, Mickey walked out of the bathroom with Ian on his heels. His steps were quick to lead him out of the store, fingers even quicker to dig his pack of smokes out of his pocket. He lit one up, leaning against the lamppost right next to the building. “Fuck,” he sighed as the smoke filled his lungs, a momentary distraction from the throbbing headache.

Mickey listened to the rattle of Ian’s keys as he locked the door. Ian pushed at the handle once to make sure it was properly locked before he turned to face Mickey.

Mickey ran his tongue over his split lip, eyes on Ian as he smoked through his cigarette. “Thanks for the…” he trailed off, gesturing to his face with one hand.

“No problem. Glad I could help.” Ian kicked a lonely rock off onto the grass patch a couple of feet away from them. “I’mma head off. Just, don’t fuckin’ pass out in the middle of the road or anythin’ like that, okay?”

Mickey dropped the cigarette onto the ground, crushed the butt with his heel. “I’ll try not to fuckin’ die, sure.”

That wide, toothy grin spreading onto Ian’s face made Mickey’s own lips twitch, but he caught himself before a real smile could form. With final goodbyes Ian was off to the direction Mickey would later head to, just with a little more tentativeness to his step.


End file.
